


help me hold on

by lifeofroonilwazlib



Category: Percy Jackson and the Olympians & Related Fandoms - All Media Types, Percy Jackson and the Olympians - Rick Riordan, The Heroes of Olympus - Rick Riordan
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Annabeth Chase-centric (Percy Jackson), Based on a Taylor Swift Song, Canon Compliant, Character Study, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Missing Moments, Songfic, and Taylor Swift, i love annabeth chase
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-19
Updated: 2021-02-19
Packaged: 2021-03-15 03:47:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,549
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29553039
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lifeofroonilwazlib/pseuds/lifeofroonilwazlib
Summary: Annabeth has always had her knife pointed out at the rest of the world, if only to keep it from digging into her back. As the years go on, it gets harder and harder to hold on to the hilt.A study of Annabeth over the years, of what broke her, and what put her back together. Of who left, and who stayed.
Relationships: Annabeth Chase/Percy Jackson
Comments: 19
Kudos: 61





	help me hold on

**Author's Note:**

> Based on The Archer by Taylor Swift. I highly recommend you listen before or while you read! :)

_Combat, I'm ready for combat  
I say I don't want that, but what if I do?  
'Cause cruelty wins in the movies  
I've got a hundred thrown-out speeches I almost said to you_

The sun glints off the edge of her blade. Annabeth’s arms ache from polishing her armour, fixing all the straps, painstakingly wrapping and re-wrapping the leather around the hilt of her knife, but still, grim satisfaction sets in her face as she stares at the gleaming bronze edge. It was badly tarnished from Kampe’s poison, and since the Battle of the Labyrinth Annabeth has been itching to fix it. For years, she’s sat at this one post outside the armoury and slashed her knife against a rock until it could slice through air.

Luke taught her the exact angle at which to hone the wicked edge, and for a long time he’d stood next to her as she worked at it. Four years ago, after Percy came back from the woods with a bitten hand and a stricken face, she’d swallowed down her tears and come here, rags and rocks in hand.

It’s become a habit, she supposes. The minute her throat starts closing and she feels that hot press behind her eyes, she thinks, _well_ , _if I can’t take care of myself I can still take care of my weapons._ Luke always told her that was important. Sliding the rag over her knife, Annabeth wonders if he sharpens Backbiter like he used to sharpen his old sword at camp. It’s a regular leaf-shaped blade, he showed her how – no, _no,_ it’s a _scythe._ And he’s – he’s not – her finger nearly slips across the edge – _he’s not Luke._

And then she’s back there, frozen, horrified, as the person that once held all her hopes climbs out of a golden sarcophagus like a monster, a zombie, a gilded nightmare. Lost to worse than death.

Her blood chills at the memory of that line just like it always has, and for the hundredth time she thinks about what it could have meant, before she went back into the Labyrinth, before– _clang_.

Annabeth looks up at the noise. Two people are sparring in the arena and the taller one – an Apollo camper? – has just lost his sword to a boy with tan skin and black hair. Percy breathes hard, offering his hand to help the other demigod to his feet.

Even from a distance, it’s hard to look at him. She thinks of the shoebox underneath her bed, stuffed with the miscellaneous sketches, scribbles and tear-stained speeches she wrote in those horrible two weeks.

_I’m sorry. Come back. There’s so much I want to say to you. So much I almost said. So much more I almost did._

_Do you know that, Percy? So much more._

Right there, in the arena, when he reappeared behind the smoke of the bonfire, she nearly said and did it all. Then she realised where he’d been, who he’d been with, who he really wanted to come back to, and she pulled away.

The summer is nearly over. Soon he’ll be back in the city, away from her and everything she wants, back with people who don’t run him dry.

 _It’s better this way_ , she tells herself. If it seems cruel, it’s only because she’s trying to learn from the fresh wounds of Luke’s betrayal. _Better to stay sharp_ , she thinks as she examines her handiwork.

The blade almost quivers with the anticipation for a fight, ready for combat. That has to be good enough.

_Easy they come, easy they go  
I jump from the train, I ride off alone  
I never grew up, it's getting so old  
Help me hold onto you_

_I've been the archer  
I've been the prey  
Who could ever leave me, darling?  
But who could stay?_

Annabeth paces around her tiny bedroom in the San Francisco house. She supposes she should be glad her dad kept a room for her, even if her 3-D model of the Parthenon has been put back all crooked. Her step-brothers have left Legos everywhere, her school uniform hangs from the closet, the vanity her stepmother rolled in when she arrived gathers dust in the corner. Looking at it all makes her miss Camp Half-Blood so much she feels sick.

It’ll be covered in the perfect amount of snow, right now. The dryads will have put twinkling lights and baubles all over Thalia’s pine, and in the evenings the campers will sing carols as the bonfire roars. She came back to San Francisco and stayed for Christmas only because it’s likely she won’t survive the next year, but right now she’s regretting ever leaving camp.

The only bearable part of the room: her bedside table with her Yankees cap, Daedalus’ laptop, her knife, and a prism and drachmas for Iris Messages. At that, her mouth turns sour again. Worry climbs up her throat as she remembers the enemy demigod she discovered in a Monster Donut, talking about recruiting a group of homeless Cyclopes in Manhattan. Cyclopes. Manhattan. She knows who she needs to talk to.

He had said to call, she remembers. And she did – but only once, only to tell him she’d found a huge telekhine nest two months back before quickly hanging up. It isn’t like before, when they used to stay up late talking, when she used to tell him about her day. When he used to ask. Iris messages work both ways, anyway.

But it’s important. For the war. Still, her stomach flutters as she lifts the prism and brings it to the fading light from the window.

“ _O Iris,”_ she begins, tossing a drachma into the rainbow. “Please accept this offering. Show me Percy Jackson, uh…” she realises too late she doesn’t know where he is, but the rainbow goddess seems to take Annabeth’s cue.

The shimmering image spirals into view, and as always, the first thing she sees is his eyes. It takes him a second to notice, and in that moment Annabeth soaks in the sight of him. _You decided to pull away_ , she has to remind herself. _And it worked, it stopped hurting as much._

Except…he’s sitting against a huge window, hundreds of feet up in the air, with the New York skyline behind him. The setting sun catches on the bridge of his nose, the edge of his jaw, on every strand of his wild, wild hair, and Annabeth realises all her efforts may have been futile. No matter how much distance, how many cold shoulders, she wants to grab him and just hold on.

Then Percy sees her. “Annabeth!” His face is mostly surprise, yes, but there’s a hint of that grin he saves for when he’s _really_ happy and she feels her heartbeat go haywire.

“Hey,” she breathes. _Gods, don’t sound so smitten._

“You called!” Oh, the grin is here fully now and she’s so far gone.

For the first time in days (weeks, months) Annabeth’s face breaks into a full smile. It’s the same, she realises. No matter how much she’s tried to ride off alone, she’s still that girl that couldn’t stay away from the son of Poseidon. Maybe, with the way his face has lit up, he doesn’t want to stay away either. Her chest is expanding, and she just wants to let him make her laugh and laugh. 

He’s got a sketchpad opened in front of him, a paintbrush in his hand, and the question is already on the tip of her tongue when she starts putting it together. Paintbrushes, an expensive view, and some weird indie tune…

“Percy,” a voice sings from somewhere to the left. Percy’s face shifts completely – guilt, discomfort, wariness. “You talking to yourself, weirdo?”

_Oh._

Rachel Elizabeth Dare slides into the frame next to Percy and Annabeth feels like she grabbed a piece of meat only to find it’s a trap and she’s the prey. As easy as her heart soared when she saw his face, it falls even easier, the wax melting off its wings. 

Rachel’s mouth is a perfect circle. “Just when I thought you demigods couldn’t get freakier…” She moves right up to Annabeth’s image, examining. Annabeth has to flinch as Rachel’s freckles get too close.

“Annabeth,” Percy says, grabbing Rachel’s wrist and pulling her back. Annabeth’s gaze snags on their touching skin, on the way his hands curl around her delicate arms so easily, so naturally. “What’s up? Is everything okay?”

Right. Down to business. “Yes, I’m fine, Percy. I can handle myself.” And just like that, Annabeth’s awful again. Cornered, hissing as a last resort, a child being left behind. She watches the grimace travel over his face.

“I called,” Annabeth continues, after a painful pause, “because I got some intel that Kronos’s army is trying to recruit Cyclopes. You need to get there first. Take Tyson. Don’t give them a chance.”

Percy’s face clouds over. She knows what he’s thinking of – helpless, neglected Cyclopes, desperate for a family like Tyson had been. Percy has a habit of picking up strays, she thinks ruefully.

He locks eyes with her and it passes over them – that shiver of realisation that the war is so close. It’s fear, yes, but also like the storm exists only in the channel of their gaze. Rachel’s apartment, Rachel’s paintbrush, Rachel’s flaming hair – gone. Annabeth wonders if he can read what’s pulsing between them, if he realises that this is only for them, that this is life, death, and war, but it is also real. _How could you ever leave this?_

Then – “Tyson will be happy to see you.”

Does the mortal not _understand_ that this isn’t about her? And what the Hades does she know about Tyson, anyway?

But Percy turns, face softening. “Oh, yeah, big time. And you guys can finally meet!”

As he looks at Rachel, it’s painful to watch the ease settle into his face. The iris-message screen feels like a bridge between the gloomy, gritty world of Greek gods and impending doom where Annabeth sits, and this other side of sunsets, where Percy and Rachel touch each other casually and paint by the window. It has to be a façade, Annabeth thinks. The world is ending – what’s some mortal in the grand scheme of things? But if it isn’t…if Rachel can give him that...how could he ever want to stay on this side of the chasm, with Annabeth and all her nightmares?

Percy wrenches his gaze away from Rachel, as if just remembering Annabeth is there. “How’s everything else? You haven’t seen, um…?”

_No please, not Luke on top of what you’re already doing to me._

“That was it. Just find the Cyclopes. I’ll see you.” She brushes her hand through the image before he can say bye.

Downstairs, the Chases seem to have gathered. She hears Bobby and Matthew arguing, her stepmother telling them off, her dad humming absentmindedly. She thinks of how four stockings fit perfectly above the fireplace, the way her fifth plate sits awkwardly on the edge of the dining table.

Annabeth climbs onto the bed that has always felt too small, even when she called it hers. Her and the bed, they haven’t grown since. She’s still in the same place as she was at seven years old, cowering under the blankets as her family laughs underneath her. As her fears crawl up the walls and all over her skin. As she screams and screams and no one seems to hear.

 _If I’m stuck like this_ , she wonders, eyes wide and shining in the dark, _who would come? Who would stay?_

_Dark side, I search for your dark side  
But what if I'm alright, right, right, right here?_

The blue light from the TV screen still flickers across the Jacksons’ living room, but that isn’t what Annabeth is watching. She’s lost, swimming in the sea of Percy’s sleeping face. It’s all eyelashes, pink lips, and soft breath, and she thinks about his battle glare, his easy smile, how his expressions change like the shifting tides, and how she loves every single one of them.

And she knows them all, she _does_ , but still…Annabeth wonders. What if there’s a shadow in the mix? Some clues she missed all along? Bitter looks, shaded scars, a dark side that took over all the others? She can’t go through it all again.

_This isn’t…This is Percy. Percy Jackson._

“Seaweed Brain,” she whispers, casting the thought into the air. He stirs, barely, moving his arm slightly to bring her closer to him. Annabeth lets herself fall into the crook of his body.

Kronos is gone. Luke is dead. Percy now kisses her, chooses her, holds her hand. And Annabeth is alright, right here, slowly falling asleep on his mom’s couch, the pulse in his neck pressed against her cheek. It’s all she can hope for.

_I wake in the night, I pace like a ghost  
The room is on fire, invisible smoke  
And all of my heroes die all alone  
Help me hold onto you_

The last time she slept, Percy disappeared from his bed, so she doesn’t anymore. Not for long, anyway. She used to walk around camp in the middle of the night, haunting the fields, the amphitheatre, the lake, but it grew tiresome. Then, one night she was coming back from visiting Sally and ended up getting lost on the streets of New York City. That night, between the whistles of sirens and whispers of wind, Annabeth swears she could hear Percy’s laugh. It whirled through the city grid like smoke, passing through her like they were made of the same ghostly stuff, and she felt like a beacon calling him back home.

So she came back the next night. And the next.

Now it’s been two months and she knows her favourite path through the city well. Like always, she winds up at the rivers, staring at the murky water and nevertheless imagining sea-green.

Each night is different. Sometimes she looks at the city lights and imagines better times where she and Percy walked under them, and believes with all her heart that he’ll come back to that. Other times, the cold sinks in, and it’s harder.

Tonight is one of those times. Wind biting at her cheek, the traitorous thought that has been lurking around for a few weeks unfurls in her mind. What if this is her reality? What if those few months where she’d started hoping again had been the knot in her string? She can picture the Fates, laughing and putting her lifeline back where it belongs in the dark and the dust.

This has how it’s always been, hasn’t it? The heroes in the old days didn’t fare any better than she has. Looking out into the water, Annabeth thinks of Leander drowning under Hero’s feet, Eurydice wasting away before Orpheus’s eyes. And the Fates and gods cackling above because the heroes dared to hope that they weren’t alone.

Will they laugh now? As her mended cracks splinter, as she dreads the moment when Percy sees her again, unknowing, unfeeling? As he realises, despite everything, that life is better on the other side of Annabeth Chase?

She gasps through her tears.

 _Hurry, Percy_. _I’m losing my grip._

_'Cause they see right through me  
They see right through me  
They see right through  
Can you see right through me?_

It almost happened a few times on the last days aboard the _Argo II_. A gryphon, a monster squid, some fresh Mediterranean horror would claw its way onto the deck and launch at Annabeth, and for a moment, as the monster’s eyes flashed in her gaze, she’d freeze. The drakon bone sword would feel like a deadweight in her hand, and she’d be back down there, firewater burning in her stomach.

Now, she’s had time. She should have moved on. It’s been over a month since leaving the pit, but here she is, just outside camp borders, pinned to the ground by a single giant scorpion. A trip to the city and back should not be placing her in mortal peril. This should be easy work. She took down so many of these scorpions the last time, but two years and two wars later, Annabeth’s pretty sure this one’s going to kill her.

 _What happened?_ The shadow of its tail made her hand shake, and her sword dropped. She scoured her mind for another plan, but remembered only the helplessness of the pit. Her stomach burned again, and the monster pinned her to the ground like a ragdoll.

It’s playing with her, Annabeth thinks, as its tail swings back and forth and it clicks its pincers in her face, realising she isn’t putting up much of a fight. Every battle she’s ever fought seems to fly through her head, stretching out the moment in which the scorpion’s poison breath wafts in her face. Stabbing Cyclopes at seven; knocking out Laistrygonians at thirteen; taking on the weight of the sky; watching Arachne writhe in her trap. _Well,_ she thinks ruefully, _the arachnids got me in the end._

Annabeth stares at the scorpion, knows its entire history and where it came from, knows what helped her before, but can’t think of a single thing to save her stupid life. The strategies had to run dry eventually.

That’s the last of her bare essentials gone, then – no knife, no silver tongue, no Percy to blow up the harbour and rescue her. Without them, Annabeth feels transparent. Percy’s powers have tripled since leaving Tartarus, but here she is, stripped of everything that let her survive up to this point. She wants to hide from the Scorpion, stop it from looking right into her and seeing everything she isn’t. No power lingers at her fingertips, no ocean to churn or lightning to summon. What good is Athena, really? What’s a battle strategy with no ammunition?

Annabeth wonders if it’s raining. There’s something wet on her face – tears? Venom? Her own blood? Something’s falling and thudding against her skin. She remembers that feeling – falling. Off the cliff in Maine, in love. Into Tartarus. It never really went away.

But it’s obvious now, isn’t it? She’s laid bare, splayed with her arms grasped in the talons of the scorpion. Its sting is right there, poised – _now, just do it –_ ready to strike – _I’m sorry, Percy –_ closer now – _oh, this is humiliating –_

_Crunch._

Something heavy falls to the ground next to her face, and the pressure on her body fades as yellow dust rains down on her. Percy stands above her, silhouetted in the light, riptide gleaming with ichor.

_See that? That’s a hero. How long are you going to make him save you?_

He drops down next to her and lifts her by the shoulder. Annabeth almost wants to pull away, but her body has gone limp.

“Annabeth,” he’s whispering into her hair, panic warping his voice. She doesn’t want to hear her name sully his tongue. “I had a feeling and I just ran from camp – oh, thank gods.”

She just shakes in his arms. Percy pulls back and looks at her, his eyebrows all scrunched up in that way she adores. “What happened?”

“I…” _I don’t know. I couldn’t…I’m still – Am I still your wise girl?_

He cups her face, eyes poring over, checking for injuries.

 _Don’t_ , she wants to scream, _don’t look at me_. _You’ll see right through._

_All the king's horses, all the king's men  
Couldn't put me together again  
'Cause all of my enemies started out friends  
Help me hold onto you_

“Annabeth, come on.”

Percy’s voice, tinged with frustration, breaks the silence she has just settled into. He stands in the doorway of Cabin Three. The concern oozes off him and Annabeth tenses up, not wanting to go down that line of questioning. He doesn’t look surprised to find her, sitting alone on his bed in the Poseidon cabin while camp activities go on.

“I’ve been looking for you,” he starts, walking into the cabin and sitting on the bed next to her. The mattress seems to sigh with relief, the familiar weight of the two of them finally having returned. Annabeth assumes that’s why she came here, when the sunlight, the scorpion attack, and damned Tartarus wouldn’t stop hounding her. This cabin is release, a portal to a world of names whispered like prayers, heated skin, reconstructed faith. But for some reason, the minute Percy opens the door the portal seems to shrink and squeeze her back out into the harshness. Because every look on that face is stitched into her, and she knows exactly what he’s thinking.

“I’ve been here,” she responds, and smiles anyway, because she can’t look at him and not.

He doesn’t smile back. The portal pinches shut.

“Why are you hiding?” He says, and tugs gently on a strand of her hair as she turns away. “I can tell you’ve been avoiding me. Can we talk about it?”

“There’s nothing to talk about. I’ve just been busy.” Annabeth tries for her most placating smile, but she has a feeling it comes out more like her baring her teeth.

Disappointment crumples Percy’s features. Rubbing his face with his hands, he says, “Are we seriously still doing this? I thought we moved on.”

Annabeth feels like he’s pushed her. Is that what’s happening? She’s back to last year, when talking to him was more painful than not. When wiping away her tears in the dark meant she could look at the light without squinting. When cruelty won, but defeated its host. She’d thought she was mended, that Luke coming full circle and Percy loving her meant the pieces welded back together. She’d begun smiling _so_ much. Even when Percy went missing, she’d had it in her to try with Jason, Leo and Piper, to earn their trust and friendship. Didn’t that mean – wasn’t that enough? But since Tartarus…

“What are you trying to say?” Annabeth spits out, before she can even think about what she’s saying, why she’s angry. Oh, everything is definitely the same.

Percy flinches a little, as if he too can see the old monster emerging from its grave. “That we need to talk about this!”

Annabeth doesn’t trust herself to speak so she just glowers.

“Why haven’t you come to meals for weeks? You skip training all the time. Malcolm told me you always leave your bed at night, and you hardly come here anymore, so where are you going? Why aren’t you sleeping?”

“Malcolm needs to mind his fucking business.”

“I know it’s hard, you know I know that. But I’m worried –”

“Percy, I’m _fine.” Liar, liar._

“No, Annabeth.” She always forgets that he can call her bluff. “Ever since that scorpion, since Tartarus, you haven’t been talking to me. You can’t keep hiding – “

“I’m not hiding –” She’s standing up now, her temper spiking at Percy in a way it hasn’t for so long.

“Yes, you are!” He’s up too, fists clenched. “You always do this! With the Great Prophecy, with Arachne – you don’t have to make it so hard –“

His voice cracks, but it isn’t the only thing that does. All around them, deep fissures spread across the shell-encrusted walls of Cabin Three with a deep rip like tearing flesh. Annabeth’s shaking hand goes to the sword at her waist. She has always thought the sea lives in this place, in its salted air that rushes like waves, and she knows now that it rose up when he called. Looking at Percy’s spread hands, his tensed arms, the anger on his face before it shifts to realisation, for a tiny, gasping moment, Annabeth wants to back away from him and run. _What – who – who are you –_

Then he slumps, and looks into her eyes. _Percy. Percy._

She rushes forward. “I’m sorry, Percy,” she pleads, wrapping her arms around him and burying her face in his neck. “Oh my gods, I’m so sorry.” She waits, and waits…and his arms come up around her too.

Annabeth knows his powers have been expanding since Tartarus, but she didn’t realize…Gods, this is her fault, isn’t it? Percy, who was always the best parts of the sea – the waves that lap at your feet, the currents that keep you afloat, the coral reefs that burst with colour – has she twisted him? He’s given up so much for her already. Please not this, too. Annabeth claws at him and presses her lips to his skin, because it’s only a matter of time before he looks around and realizes she’s to blame.

“I..” She isn’t used to his voice sounding so small. “I need to talk about it, too.”

At that Annabeth thinks all the tortures in the Fields of Punishment might not be good enough for her. _Look what you’ve done. You’ve ruined Percy, too._

Is this what Luke felt in the early days? That once things got hard she turned her back on him because she’s never been that brave? Luke was so similar, in the beginning – protective, funny, loyal, safety in the form of a smile and a ruffle on the head.

One day, will Percy become the enemy, and look at her with bitterness, accuse her of betraying him? Maybe _she’s_ the enemy.

No, she tries to tell herself. No. _No._

_Fix it, fix it now._

Annabeth pulls back to look into his face. “I love you,” she says to his eyes. To the crinkle in his eyebrows. To the way his lashes shadow his cheeks. “I’ll do better.”

And to her heart-shattering relief, Percy leans down and slants his lips over her waiting and open mouth. She coils herself around him, wanting to keep him as close as possible, between her bones, somewhere she can hold on to him tight. Somewhere she can hope that he’ll stay, hope that it’ll work, hope that if she can’t put herself together, she can at least try to do it for him.

_Who could stay?  
Who could stay?  
You could stay  
You could stay  
_

The Hall of the Gods is dead silent. Athena’s gaze cuts into her but Annabeth has her eyes fixed on the boy standing a few feet in front of her, facing the thrones. ADHD usually makes his fingers twitch or his foot tap, but not now. Lit by the enormous braziers, tall with victory and laden with grief, Annabeth thinks for a moment that he looks like the sculptures of heroes from the days of Myron and Praxiteles. Any other time, she would want to study him, run her hands across his ridges and learn the history behind them, but right now she’s terrified. Because he hasn’t answered. Because he’s making her wait.

In her mind his answer flashes. _Yes. It would be an honour._ He already looks like he belongs there, up on the thrones. Swords don’t hurt him and Titans can’t defeat him, so why should he let mortality hold him back? Could she refuse, if it were her? She thinks of the vision the Sirens gave her all those years ago and the memory of power at her fingertips. _Take it, Percy, go on. I’ll be okay._ Even to herself, Annabeth is a liar.

She’s already lowered her face and begun bolting shut all the hopes that started leaking out since they won when Percy speaks.

“No.” 

And he’s looking right at her.

Right then, standing in their palace on Olympus, Annabeth feels like she doesn’t need immortality to be a god.

**

Part of being a demigod is being able to compartmentalize. As they land in Salt Lake City, Annabeth’s mind is on tar and their horrible exit from New Rome, and determinedly _not_ on the fact that this is the first time her and Percy have been alone together for six months. But he has clearly missed the memo.

They’re just out of sight of the _Argo II_ and Annabeth begins to muse aloud, “Where should we –“He grabs her by the elbow, spins her, and pushes her against the wall of the alley next to them.

“Sorry, I just have to…” he mutters, pressing against her.

Annabeth’s brain no longer compartmentalises. In fact, she’s pretty sure it no longer works at all. Because his hands are on her waist, clutching the back of her head, angling it to meet her lips with his. Dazedly, she realises just how much taller he’s gotten, because in New Rome she had sort of jumped and he had sort of lifted her, but now – she rising on her toes and his body blocks out the sun and his shoulders are so _broad_ under her hands. His lips are slow and purposeful. And salty. Always salty.

He kisses her like he couldn’t in Rome – open-mouthed, biting, so luxurious she can’t tell where her his tongue ends and hers begins. Annabeth’s body is roaring, an addict getting its first fix in months, nourishing its parched nerves.

They break apart, still close enough share breaths. Annabeth feels like she might collapse – from happiness, shock, or relief, she doesn’t know. But she does know everything seems to be clicking into place, and despite her fears, it’s the same, it’s _better._ Yes, Jason got his memories back, but things were fuzzy, and considering the way Reyna looked at him, a lot of things faded.

She’d told herself she’d deal with it if the same thing happened to Percy, but now that she has him back –

“I don’t know what I would have done,” she whispers against his mouth. “If you didn’t remember.”

Percy moves back to look at her, deeply, like he’s memorizing her. “I never forgot.”

She looks at him quizzically – never? Had they gotten it wrong?

“You, I mean,” he adds quickly. “I lost my memories, but not you.” He traces a finger across her lips. “Annabeth.”

She blinks. Jason hadn’t remembered anything, in the beginning. Her hands grip his shoulders and she has no intention of ever letting go. “Me?”

Percy leans down again, and before he kisses her again he mutters, “You.”

**

 _The most powerful demigod of our generation._ Annabeth looks at her hands, callused and long-fingered. She’s pretty much accepted the fact that they’ll never move oceans or shift the earth, but when she sees other demigods summoning Olympus, she still thinks _fine, I’ll just work harder._

“Percy?” Annabeth says from the passenger seat of the Prius as they drive away from Boston Harbour. Percy looks magnificent, bathed in New England sun, his eyes glinting with the steely blue of the Massachusetts sea. The whole time he was training with Magnus, Annabeth had to force herself to close her mouth to keep the drool from escaping. Immigrant Song burbles quietly from the radio and his fingers tap softly to the beat on the steering wheel. Annabeth thinks, for a moment, that this is one of the moments she’ll hold onto when she’s a spirit drifting in the Underworld.

“Mm?”

“The most powerful demigod of our generation? Bit much, no?”

Some might say she’s fishing, but Percy hears the doubt behind the teasing tone. And Annabeth has long grown tired of letting it fester in her chest.

“Hell no.” His eyebrows furrow like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “You’re always saving me. When the world ends, I know you’ll find a way to bring it back.”

Annabeth still hasn’t gotten used to the way he says such sweeping things so sincerely and casually. She takes a minute to catch her breath, then, “That’s a lot of pressure, Seaweed Brain. ”

He grins at her. “Alright, we’ll save everything together. Deal?” He offers up a hand for a fist bump.

Annabeth laughs, taps her fist on his and they both move their hands at the same time to lace their fingers together. She turns up the volume dial. Led Zeppelin’s twanging riffs fill the car.

Percy whoops. “ _Aaaah! Aaaah!”_

“Oh my _gods,”_ Annabeth doubles over laughing.

“ _We come from the land of the ice and snow! From the midnight sun where the hot springs flow!”_

And as they drive into the setting sun to the soundtrack of Percy’s cracking voice, Annabeth feels like she really could save the world over and over again.

**

Years on, in their New York apartment, Annabeth’s favourite hobby becomes getting up early and watching Percy drift between sleep and wakefulness. Looking at him, she no longer thinks of the past, or her doubts, or her fears. She doesn’t hope, she dreams. Of blonde children with green eyes, of the colour of their walls when they buy their own place, of a quiet ceremony on the beach with no shoes on. She thinks of how she has to give the Fates some credit, for tangling his bright blue lifeline up with hers so thoroughly it can’t be unravelled.

Last week, they hammered two nails into the wall to hang up her Yankees cap and his Minotaur horn, side by side. Their matching armour, his and hers, has its own shelf in the closet.

Annabeth feels strong. She feels safe. She still keeps her blade sharpened for the constant battle, but she knows she won’t fight alone.

_Combat, I'm ready for combat_

**Author's Note:**

> This was my love letter to my favourite chaotic, self-destructive, smart, capable, insecure, badass, cancer sun emotional wreck daughter of Athena!!  
> Also I swear Taylor Swift writes about percabeth. The Archer is excellent and immediately makes me cry and think of Annabeth. I could write percabeth fics based on her songs for days. 
> 
> Also also, for those who haven't read it, the scene in the car takes place just after the first few chapters of The Ship of the Dead, after Percy and Annabeth leave Magnus. They're described as singing Led Zeppelin, and I firmly believe Percy would BODY Immigrant Song :D
> 
> Let me know what you think in the comments!


End file.
